Villager: Polyphemus
Moonshoe
0
Villager Info
ID: #85830
Name: Polyphemus
Gender: Female
Location: Quetzal Palace
Born 9 years, 4 months ago
Career: Explorer
Owner: musamow
Species: Manokit
Color: Blue Tang
Buffs:House: House has been destroyed.
Career (View All)
Polyphemus no longer has a house! They will be unable to work. Please replace the house or move Polyphemus into a FC slot.
About
Polyphemus was born blind, but loved. For she was one was of many, of a Collective, of hundreds of bodies all bearing one soul. They were the Formless, the Lawless and also the Crimeless, the true Immortal Being, they claimed, for gods were sadly singular, and thus would eventually wither away.
Polyphemus had a role, a spot, since she was born. Her female body was blind, yes, and thus would be used to propagate their numbers, one day, but until then she would be cared for, and she would, once she grew old enough, be an ambassador to a nearing land, to a nearly land with sad, singular people, with the ultimate goal of Integrating them.
The Formless were just that, countless years ago, a single soul made out of mist and ice and frost, before it found a warm body to call home. And then it spread to that creature’s belly, where a babe sat. And soon, the babe became part of it, too. And another part was that babe’s babe. And that child’s child. And so on, and so on, until its numbers swelled and it saw the world form and rise and die and burst like a great balloon, one time, even.
But even that it survived, like it survived everything else. Because the Formless were better than the gods, Eternal, True, Happy, because they were the Many. They would be the ones watching the heart of the universe-beast crumble and contract, and then, as sweet aether would fill up its veins, expand and relax that heart, and they see the bloom of another universe, exact like theirs and yet utterly different.
The Formless was just that, a long time ago, and the beings’ skins they dwelt in were just that, some time ago. Beings, people, singular. But wasn’t that sadly restricting, and saddening, and /pathetic/, even, they said? No. No, all would be good with this tumultuous, grey, war torn world if everyone became one, united and true and loving each other, for they /were/ each other.
And so, Polyphemus was important, as an ambassador. She was to help spreading their message, their /entirety/ to the world at large. Blind she may be, but singular creatures underestimated beasts with such things, thought them feeble and weak, and, once Polyphemus met her first singular creature, oh, how did she /see/ the pity.
She saw it, yes, because she wasn’t truly blind. Not when she was one of Many. Because she was everyone, and most of everyone had eyes, and they saw for her. And so, Polyphemus did her duty, as one of the Many. She came to the Court of the Rooks, where the beasts had dark feathers and darker eyes, but light souls with weakness etching each of their annoying singular selves.
Polyphemus didn’t notice it, but one of the Rooks came to fall in love with her. It was a Prince, with elegant feathers and a silver tongue, but a weak spot for the creature he /knew/ was one of many, but yet had a body, a—A—A /something/ that separated her from the rest of her kind. She had to. How else would she catch the eye of a man like himself?
She was blind. Flawed. Weak, even if her tongue was sharp when it needed to be. The Rook thought her weak, so weak and beautifully submissive and charming and lovely and he fell in love in the image of a creature that could never be.
His lonely singular heart throbbed and melt and he schemed.
He sought out a Weaver. A Weaver of Life’s Tapestry, an ancient creature, neither a god but neither a man, just as old as needles and threads and teeth and no more. They added a few strings, to the tapestry, if need be, but not much. No, they more overlooked it, watched it shake and rot and resigned themselves to their fate.
But there was one who was different. Who was fated to be different, and knew it. And so when he was approached by a boy-prince with a heart out for a sweetheart he crafted with nighttime fantasies and rosy imaginings, this Weaver knew what he must do.
And so, he found one string of many that all tied back to the Many, and tore apart Polyphemus’ strings with the jaws of his own soul.
Suddenly, so, so, so far way, Polyphemus became her own being. And she broke down and cried and wailed, because the noise, the hub, the hum of the Many was gone and she was all alone and so /angry/ and---
And she didn’t know how to function like a person, only as a People.
The Rooks were gobbled up by the Formless, and Polyphemus fled. Blind, alone, with her boy-prince taking her honour leaving her with an unwanted babe, and dying in the first days of an unbeatable war, she thus became an outcast. And she would have died, died and so would have her little Odysseys if her tongue wasn’t sharpened and smart from decades of work as an ambassador.
She lied, she swindled and cheated and stole and slew with shiny nicking-knives. And, all the while, she was figuring out how to be a person, a /thing/, and not many, not something ancient and grand and arrogant, and, and despite her hardships, despite her rape-son being unwanted but not unloved, but hard faced and with beady suspicious eyes, she didn’t want to go back.
She liked being a person.
Polyphemus had a role, a spot, since she was born. Her female body was blind, yes, and thus would be used to propagate their numbers, one day, but until then she would be cared for, and she would, once she grew old enough, be an ambassador to a nearing land, to a nearly land with sad, singular people, with the ultimate goal of Integrating them.
The Formless were just that, countless years ago, a single soul made out of mist and ice and frost, before it found a warm body to call home. And then it spread to that creature’s belly, where a babe sat. And soon, the babe became part of it, too. And another part was that babe’s babe. And that child’s child. And so on, and so on, until its numbers swelled and it saw the world form and rise and die and burst like a great balloon, one time, even.
But even that it survived, like it survived everything else. Because the Formless were better than the gods, Eternal, True, Happy, because they were the Many. They would be the ones watching the heart of the universe-beast crumble and contract, and then, as sweet aether would fill up its veins, expand and relax that heart, and they see the bloom of another universe, exact like theirs and yet utterly different.
The Formless was just that, a long time ago, and the beings’ skins they dwelt in were just that, some time ago. Beings, people, singular. But wasn’t that sadly restricting, and saddening, and /pathetic/, even, they said? No. No, all would be good with this tumultuous, grey, war torn world if everyone became one, united and true and loving each other, for they /were/ each other.
And so, Polyphemus was important, as an ambassador. She was to help spreading their message, their /entirety/ to the world at large. Blind she may be, but singular creatures underestimated beasts with such things, thought them feeble and weak, and, once Polyphemus met her first singular creature, oh, how did she /see/ the pity.
She saw it, yes, because she wasn’t truly blind. Not when she was one of Many. Because she was everyone, and most of everyone had eyes, and they saw for her. And so, Polyphemus did her duty, as one of the Many. She came to the Court of the Rooks, where the beasts had dark feathers and darker eyes, but light souls with weakness etching each of their annoying singular selves.
Polyphemus didn’t notice it, but one of the Rooks came to fall in love with her. It was a Prince, with elegant feathers and a silver tongue, but a weak spot for the creature he /knew/ was one of many, but yet had a body, a—A—A /something/ that separated her from the rest of her kind. She had to. How else would she catch the eye of a man like himself?
She was blind. Flawed. Weak, even if her tongue was sharp when it needed to be. The Rook thought her weak, so weak and beautifully submissive and charming and lovely and he fell in love in the image of a creature that could never be.
His lonely singular heart throbbed and melt and he schemed.
He sought out a Weaver. A Weaver of Life’s Tapestry, an ancient creature, neither a god but neither a man, just as old as needles and threads and teeth and no more. They added a few strings, to the tapestry, if need be, but not much. No, they more overlooked it, watched it shake and rot and resigned themselves to their fate.
But there was one who was different. Who was fated to be different, and knew it. And so when he was approached by a boy-prince with a heart out for a sweetheart he crafted with nighttime fantasies and rosy imaginings, this Weaver knew what he must do.
And so, he found one string of many that all tied back to the Many, and tore apart Polyphemus’ strings with the jaws of his own soul.
Suddenly, so, so, so far way, Polyphemus became her own being. And she broke down and cried and wailed, because the noise, the hub, the hum of the Many was gone and she was all alone and so /angry/ and---
And she didn’t know how to function like a person, only as a People.
The Rooks were gobbled up by the Formless, and Polyphemus fled. Blind, alone, with her boy-prince taking her honour leaving her with an unwanted babe, and dying in the first days of an unbeatable war, she thus became an outcast. And she would have died, died and so would have her little Odysseys if her tongue wasn’t sharpened and smart from decades of work as an ambassador.
She lied, she swindled and cheated and stole and slew with shiny nicking-knives. And, all the while, she was figuring out how to be a person, a /thing/, and not many, not something ancient and grand and arrogant, and, and despite her hardships, despite her rape-son being unwanted but not unloved, but hard faced and with beady suspicious eyes, she didn’t want to go back.
She liked being a person.
